‘Cause you move to Hollywood you ain’t good out there.
Send the pie rules get your shit took out there.
Bring a nigga shit straight back to Atlanta.
I know Clay County niggas got kush out there.

[Verse 1:]
Heard he in the A-town callin’ J prince junior.
You ain’t from the streets you just rap a lot nigga.
Booked for a show in the middle of the hood.
You ain’t good out there this is Chi Town nigga.
Asshole by nature, fuck it I’m Trey.
Run that train nigga like it’s a relay.
You really pussy that’s what the streets say.
Fuck who you know nigga, you gotta pay.
Out in PA, fuckin’ with cook.
Heard your favorite rapper got his AP took.
I’m seein’ green dots, puttin’ money on books.
If he broke he hatin’ young nigga get money.
Fuckin’ with the white girl, Playboy bunny.
Got them niggas lookin’ funny have them runnn’ in your shit.
Caught ‘em slippin’ pumpin’ gas, nigga you a sweet leak.
Got robbed by the bloods now you runnin’ with the crips – Nah.
You niggas ain’t boo.
Imma call troop, he gon’ call big you.
Now the guns all on you nigga deja vu.
You a question mark gangster – DJ Clue.
For that Cuban link chain and that big Rolex.
You in the wrong scenario – Tribe Called Quest.
On the jet boy mission all our clips got extensions.
Tryin’ to hold onto your chain, you gon’ end up missin’.

[Hook]

[Verse 2:]
I got shooters in the D, I ain’t talkin’ bout the Pistons.
Grand theft auto, send them homies on a mission.
Pay yo’ ass a visit braggin’ bout your low ticket.
Shoulda kept your mouth closed, now we know your business.
Lyin’ on your crib like an infant, kill you in an instant.
I want the shit for the chicken, I just hit a sweet lick, Charlie Sheen we winnin’.
Ten toes down with the yoppa, I’m a beast.
No V-103 like Greg I’m street.
Don’t give up the money, then it’s RIP.
Sendin’ head shots like the DMV.
Half asleep split your wig like the red sea.
Got stripes in the street like a referee.
Have a nigga runnin’ like a refugee.
Show you how to rob, got the recipe.
Do your homework, find out where he be at.
Where he hide the money put the D at.
Run up in yo’ shit we gon’ seize that.
Then break it down on the g pad.
Better be, boo you don’t need that.
Waka Flocka Flame catch me hangin’ where the G’s at.
Rob a dope boy, I ain’t worryin’ ’bout prison.
Can’t call the police ’bout them bricks in the kitchen.